


Authenticity

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7683724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smutty, drabbley ficlet for the first PFF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Authenticity

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, PromisesArePieCrust said that my joked-about "Phrack Fucking Friday" needed to be a thing. And so now it is. The first Friday of the month, I want your smut, your meta, your fic appreciation. Tag it on Tumblr as #PFF or #Phrack Fucking Friday, and may the Phrack be with you.

They are in a city that was once authentic but is now full of Brits and Americans and Europeans all escaping the mundanities of their own homes in favour of the exotic. It’s an exhausting way to live, Phryne thinks, but fun to pass through.

There’s a late night party and absinthe and a woman flirting with Jack that she laughs off at first. Playful music, playful men, a wicked gleam in her lover’s eye from across the room. When the music shifts to something sultry, the woman is less amusing; Jack’s deep in conversation as she approaches, his eyes rapt. The woman lays her hand on Jack’s forearm, a technique Phryne has deployed against men to ensure her own pleasure many times.

Phryne crosses to join them, twines herself around Jack, and meets the woman’s eye. An assertion, not a challenge. Jack is unaware of the by-play, just greets Phryne with a kiss to the cheek, slips his arm around her waist,  and continues his conversation with the woman--they are talking about forensic techniques (what are the odds?) and then her latest trip to a yet more exotic locale, an authentic one.

When they get back to the hotel room, Phryne has him out of his clothes and sprawled on the bed with an admonishment not to touch, before attacking her own clothes. She teases his cock with her hands, her mouth, the smooth silk of her knickers, until he is hard and panting and yearning; then she rides him. Hard. Relentless. Scrapes fingernails across his chest, suckles his throat until it bruises, bites at his wrist when his hand comes up to touch her face.

She has been jealous before, of women from his past who are better suited to her stalwart man, women she could lose him to because he is a man of honour. But there is no history here, no obligation. This woman is Phryne but freer, richer, more adventurous. She is not worried that he will choose a traditional path Phryne cannot follow, but that tasting flight he will attempt to go ever higher.

When he comes it’s sudden and loud, and then he stills. Regains his breath. She moves to pulls away and his hands--up until now resting lightly on her hips--tense. 

“You didn’t--” he begins, one hand shifting between them to remedy the situation.

She shakes her head, he pauses.

“Not tonight,” she says, unapologetically.

It is not what he expected to hear, but he nods and accepts it without question. 

In the morning, she wakes before he does and stares in horror at the marks she has branded across his skin. They will heal, and she kisses each one as if it will hurry the process, but they are there. She has put them there. 

She almost (but not quite) regrets it.

Later, when he is dressing in front of the mirror, she catches him running his fingers across the marks.

“Do they hurt?” she asks. 

His reflection smiles at her. 

“Not at all,” he says. “I rather like them.”


End file.
